Silah - The old war. The never ending war. The reason I exist. It has come home again.
I told myself it would be different this time; that I would be different this time.
“You look great, in that dress.” Hakaar’s innocent comment disarmed me again.
His kindness and adoration was easy to accept. Or maybe it was hard to refuse. His willingness to let me in totally would be easy to abuse. In another time, under another caretaker I wouldn’t hesitate to take the war to the enemy. This time it seemed harder.
“Will that be all for the Lady?” The proprietor of Mont Brooks spoke in his practiced veneer. I beamed appropriately and segued the emotional gesture into a grand exit to facilitate our departure without the uncomfortable nuisance of tipping the man. Hakaar was quickly becoming formidable, but had still not managed to amass a coin purse of substance.
Now I found myself resisting the urges that compelled me once more to the front lines. Our confrontation at the Priory of Kols was a sobering reminder of the real stage. The tiny machinations that fill the days here would quickly amount to nothing if I forget - no ignore - the blight that this very day may have toppled the first of many pins. Pins that were once carefully placed to protect this world.
The faces around me now, companions and friends, may well be the faces of those who stand athwart the vile desecration that would ravage this uniquely beautiful place. I could spend a thousand days awash in the briny breezes and and colorful dialog that fill my days, but for this creeping doom.
“We should head over to the Sea Witch, I’d like to get there a little early.” Hakaar’s concern for the broken gunfighter was another of his charms.
“We deserve to celebrate.” I said to the street before me, while gripping his arm in the fashion I had become accustomed to.
We should celebrate every free moment, for if the past be a relevant template of the future, we will look back on these days with the fondness of a life once lived.
“You have earned it my beast.”
We pushed through the doors to some fanfare. Another kindness I have been granted in my present company; the place was alive with anticipation and wonder.
We had been warming up to the growing crowd of friends when an unexpected guest arrived. An ancient Dwarf wandered through the doors of the tavern. Sympathetic gazes and mumbled commentary said more about the guest than if he had a sign hung from him. They called him Withy. They said he had been a miner once, that he had seen something that deprived him of his reason. It was a malady with which I was all too familiar.
I excused myself from the others and made my way over to him. He was nursing a watered-down beer, while his eyes searched to make sense of the world around him. When I approached, he turned and greeted me with a warm smile. “Kelly Pot.” He said as he looked directly at me.
“I know.” I said. “Thats why I’m here.” My eyes misted over as I looked upon the shell of a creature who could have been spared this miserable existence. The walls I had spent ages to build were crumbling. The evidence stood before me.
“Kelly Pot.” He said once more.
“Yes. I know.” I started to dismiss his ramblings when he took hold of my arm. He held my focus with his eyes. The clouds of his affliction parted. I could feel his need to communicate. He mouthed words soundlessly. I could not read his words, but I wanted to assure him is some way.
“The Qlippoth have returned. Is that what you want me to understand?” I searched his eyes for understanding. He relaxed visibly and the clouds returned.
“Kell Pot.” He said absently.
“Kelly Pot.” I said as I leaned in and kissed his leathery forehead.
